K. WHEN I PAINT MY MASTERPIECE (160)

As a career coach I picked up a lot of tennis balls. Frequently I wondered about “a better mousetrap”. The ball rack was the first common solution, then the tubes. A bunch of campers picking them up for you isn’t a bad idea. But you have to put up with some complaining.
I often thought I could design a teaching court with a series of angled boards (or the like). Pop the ball up at the slightly inclined board till it drops the balls off into an ally, one half declining downhill to the left, the other half to the right. A container in a hole below ground level collects the balls, which you lift and pour into your shopping cart. High tech worries? Nope, unless gravity goes awry.
Somebody beat me to the next one: A slower moving ball. No-brainer for youngsters. As a matter of fact, you can take it further and use balloons. Children at a very young age can learn to track a balloon. And with  practice, they can learn tactile hand usage and learning to bend their arms while collecting the slow moving toy. Careful, though, with balloons and little ones.
I really feel like I mishandled The SENOR. This was a simple tee shirt designed with various food residue spottings, strategically located on the shirt. While the standard Senor would feature mustard, catsup, coffee stains, beer splotches, pizza drippings etc., there would be room for creativity, ethnic venues, and so on. How bout the Mexican (salsa, quacamole, chips, bean drippings). the Italian with spaghetti dangles, oil and vinegar, three wine spots, burp-ups, and such. The French, the Afro, even the veggie. With a label  advising, “no wash, no worry.”

Golf got me thinking.  That distance to the bottom of the hole after a rare made putt got shortened by the putter suction  cup.  Wish I’da  done that one.  What pride.

Toughest part of the golf day?  Getting my left sock on.  I dealt with shoe tying with  velcro shoe “laces”.  Miami here I come.   Pedicure for the toenails around the corner?

Don’t tell about the next one.  Duck Dynasty’s Si Robertson gets the next call.  A  blend between  a child’s clicker toy and Si fine tuning a device, hidden of course, that sounds like a golf ball going into the cup.   Then, the circumstances perfect (or, the others not close by or where they see, yet hear—the “putt clicker”.  Followed by the old coach shouting,”…damn, I knocked in another gagger!” Nirvana.

If I could pull that off just one time, that may be my masterpiece.

But The Senor wasn’t bad.

 

 

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